


All The Way

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bare Kink, First Time, M/M, Rimming, Shaving Kink, Sherlock is seductive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock shaves. All over. John is fascinated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Way

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a prompt on the kink meme. Short version: "By accident John finds out that Sherlock shaves all the way and wants nothing more than to touch/lick/kiss him all over." You can read the full prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=117590815#t117590815).

Being a soldier, a doctor, and the assistant to Sherlock Holmes has taught John Watson a little about patience. Few people in the world could offer a protest to that. He's used to waiting for hours on stake-outs, to spending days trying to coax Sherlock into eating or drinking, to spending months without sex thanks to a particularly possessive and/or overzealous (he hasn't quite decided which yet) flatmate.

However, when you have to piss, you have to piss, and no amount of training can change that.

He shifts uneasily and glances at again at the clock. It's half past seven and if he doesn't leave within the next five to ten minutes he's going to be late for work... again. Sarah's good nature will only extend so far, he knows, and the last time he was late she didn't speak to him for the rest of the day.

In theory, he could just get up and go.

In practice, once he stands up he has about a minute to get to the toilet before he won't be able to hold back any longer.

The problem is that Sherlock Holmes takes the longest shower known to mankind.

That's not a joke. It's the truth. Out of all the things that have the potential to annoy John re: having Sherlock as a flatmate, he never expected it would be that Sherlock takes hours in the bathroom. Literally. John caught on to this pretty early in their cohabitation and learned to make sure that he was taken care of before encouraging (forcing) Sherlock to shower.

Now admittedly, Sherlock does work with some fairly dangerous chemicals. But this is also the man who thought that the explosion last week which caused a cloud of toxic fumes was "enlightening", so John's pretty sure it's not about safety. And he's also pretty sure it's not about cleanliness, considering that Sherlock will go for days without a shower when he's on a case.

He shifts again, trying in vain to relieve the pressure on his bladder, and glances at the door. By his best estimation, Sherlock's been in there for about two hours, so there's another good hour to go. He'll never make it that long.

"This is bloody ridiculous," he mutters. He's seen blokes naked before, so what's stopping him from going in there now? Living in the close quarters that the army offers doesn't lend to strict policies about nudity, after all. But he's been trying (unsuccessfully) to teach Sherlock about personal boundaries and he's a little afraid that if he walks in there now, Sherlock will do exactly the same later on.

Not that Sherlock wouldn't do it anyway.

John huffs and finally stands up. Immediately, he gasps, nearly doubling over, as the pressure increases tenfold. He does an awkward scuttle over to the bathroom door and puts a hand on the doorknob. Surprisingly, it turns easily beneath his fingers, swinging open slowly, revealing a cloud of steam so thick that he chokes a little.

As it turns out, the steam isn't thick enough.

Sherlock has the curtain pulled all the way back, revealing a long, lanky body. John freezes in the doorway, staring. Sherlock glances up at him and blinks. He's holding a razor in his right hand and is in the process of shaving his... his...

It may be possible that John's brain went offline.

Just a little.

By the time he comes back to himself, Sherlock has straightened up and is staring at him with what might actually be concern in his pale eyes. "John?" he says. "John? Are you alright?" He looks wary. "You didn't eat the sugar in the red bowl, did you?"

"What's wrong with the - no. No, I don't want to know." John holds a hand up. He knows he should look away. This is... it's awkward. His flatmate is naked and apparently shaving himself from head to toe, considering that his legs (his very long, slender, toned legs) are bare. Even his arms and chest are smooth. Half the hair around his cock is gone, and it's not hard to imagine the rest of the hair there will be next.

"Did you want something?" Sherlock looks amused.

"Yes. No. I'm leaving for work," he blurts out desperately, and finally steps backwards and slams the door shut. All thoughts of having to piss are gone. He staggers out of the flat and the cold wintery air is a jolt to the system, snapping him out of his daze. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and shakes his head slowly. "What... the fuck... was that?"

\--

John's not gay. He's really not. But little things like sexual identity have never been the rule when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, who was born to disregard the rules so thoroughly that he doesn't even have to try to break them. The image of Sherlock shaving stays in his mind for the rest of the day, and it only gets worse. Over the next few weeks, he finds he can't stop thinking about it.

He stares at the small V of skin visible above Sherlock's buttoned shirts and wonders what it would be like to open it up, to run his fingers over that smooth chest.

When Sherlock slops around the flat in his dressing gown or worse, a sheet, John strain to catch every glimpse of those long legs he can.

His next few dates with women end when his date leaves, annoyed that John can't seem to stop talking about his flatmate (who, incidentally, sounds bloody crazy).

At night, his nightmares have been replaced by deep moans produced by his tongue and an endless expanse of pale skin. It probably says something he's really not sure whether he wouldn't have the nightmares back.

During the three hours Sherlock is in the shower, he's taken to sitting in his armchair - which, coincidentally, affords an excellent view of the bathroom door - and staring at the door, wondering which part of his body Sherlock is shaving. Wondering if the door is unlocked. Wondering if Sherlock would allow him to watch, or maybe even help.

It's getting to the point where he can't look at Sherlock without wanting to pin the man down and go over every inch of his body with his hands and yes, alright, with his tongue too, because if John is going to do it he's going to go all the way. And That Would Be Bad. Very bad. Sherlock has made it clear he's not interested in a relationship. John enjoys the friendship they share. He doesn't want to do anything to ruin it.

So he tries to get this new obsession under control. He forces himself to concentrate on something, anything else when Sherlock is around. He's pretty sure Donovan now thinks he has a crush on her because of how hard he sometimes stares, but that's fine. Anything is better than allowing Sherlock to catch on.

Really, he should have known that thinking he could get anything past Sherlock Holmes was just madness itself.

\--

It's the night after a case and John is sitting in his chair with the paper. He's tired, but not overly so, not after a long night of sleep. He's thinking about dinner and what they might order in when he hears footsteps coming into the room. Sherlock, fresh out of the shower. He tries to ignore the low curl of arousal blooming in his belly and clears his throat.

"What do you feel like?" he says, scanning the page idly. No interesting cases. Nothing that Sherlock will deem worthy of his time. "You're eating tonight whether you want to or not."

"John."

There's something about Sherlock's voice that makes him look up. It's on the tip of his tongue to ask what's wrong, but the question dies as he freezes.

Sherlock is naked.

Completely naked.

Miles of pale skin, broken only by the occasional scar or bruise. Slender but muscled legs taper off into thin hips and a luscious arse. His cock is half-hard already, thick and long, looking all the more tantalizing because it lacks the surrounding of usual curls. His chest is defined, but not overly, his arms hanging freely at his sides, and every inch is completely hairless, except for his eyebrows and the dark curls on his head.

John stops breathing.

"John," Sherlock says again.

Nothing.

"John?" This time with a touch more concern. He crosses the room and stands right in front of John. "John!"

"What?" John jumps and realizes that he was staring. Shit. He hastily looks away, trying to pretend like he is annoyed by the fact that Sherlock's prick is less than a foot away. "Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell are you doing? Put your clothes on."

Sherlock watches him, mouth curled with amusement. "Should I?"

"Yes!"

"You don't seem to want me to."

"Yes, I really do."

"Your pupils dilated when I walked in and your pulse rate jumped," Sherlock says. "You were surprised by my appearance, but you were also aroused. Now that you're breathing again, it's heavier." He studies John and then inches closer so that their legs are touching. "John."

"Go put your clothes on," John says weakly. The print in the paper has blurred. Then it disappears altogether. Sherlock crumbles the paper into a ball and throws it over his shoulder, leaving him without a defence. That's what Sherlock does: he strips all of the layers away until what's underneath is visible to him and him alone.

"John," he repeats, looming ever closer.

John Watson is a soldier, a doctor, an assistant. He's patient. But he can only be pushed so far before even his resolve breaks.

He leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock's skin tastes of just a hint of soap. Smooth, creamy, and surprisingly warm. John can't help giving a tiny sigh of pleasure as he draws his tongue around Sherlock's belly button, unable to resist the urge to dip inside. He's been resisting this for weeks and it feels good to let go, to give in.

"John," Sherlock breathes above him. He's gone tense, and when John looks up, his eyes are wide. His pupils are dilated and small beads of sweat have broken out across his forehead. His cock is now fully erect, threatening to poke John in the neck. It's surprisingly easy to place a kiss at the very tip, and so rewarding when Sherlock jerks and muffles a startled cry.

"Jesus," John mutters. He stands up, and Sherlock is so close that their bodies are nearly flush together. Bare inches - literally, in Sherlock's case - are all that exists between them. "Do you know how long I've been thinking about you?"

Sherlock licks his lips. "Since you walked in on me," he says hoarsely. "You began watching me more after that but you never made a move." He pouts. "I've been waiting."

Of course. It's so like Sherlock to get fed up with waiting for a "lesser mind" to catch up to him and take matters into his own hands. Though in this case, John doesn't mind. He's at the perfect height to lean forward and press his lips to Sherlock's bare shoulder. His hands don't stay idle: he slides them around Sherlock's hips, running his thumbs across Sherlock's belly, right where his tongue was seconds ago.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers. It's true. No one can compare to Sherlock. John wants to lick every inch of him, wants to bite Sherlock's neck and suck until there's a huge bruise there letting everyone know that this brilliant mind and brilliant transport both belong to him. He shivers and exhales, watching goose pimples form where his breath washes over Sherlock's skin.

"John," Sherlock says again. He sounds more strained. His legs are shaking a little. John's hands on his hips are the only thing steadying him.

"Sit down." John steps forward, pushing against Sherlock's hips when Sherlock would have stayed still. The detective backs up reluctantly until his knees hit the couch and he falls, landing hard on the cushions. John has to swallow. His cock hardens in his trousers. Seeing Sherlock below him, all pale skin and blown eyes and dark hair against the supple material of the couch - Jesus, it's better than any porn movie or any fantasy that he could muster.

"I want to devour you," he says, looking into Sherlock's eyes. "I want to lick every inch of you until I know how you taste."

Sherlock's mouth drops open but nothing comes out, just short, sharp little gasps like he can't catch his breath. John takes that as a yes. He leans forward, careful to avoid any contact between their lower bodies, and presses his nose to Sherlock's hair. He inhales deeply. The scent of vanilla and honey, a bit of nicotine and something sharper, more chemical that he can't identify, floods him. He has to close his eyes and steady himself on the back of the couch. It's so Sherlock that it's almost overwhelming in the sheer intensity.

He shifts to the side until he encounters bare skin - the tip of Sherlock's ear. His tongue emerges and traces the rounded shell slowly, curiously. Sherlock whimpers below him as John sucks the lobe into his mouth, pressing down on it gently with his teeth. The flesh is warm and fits nicely in his mouth. He suckles, breathing through his nose, eyes half-closed in pleasure.

His hands move, sliding across Sherlock's chest, seeking out all of the places where hair would normally be. Down to Sherlock's hips, up his sensitive sides, up - pushing Sherlock's arms up until John's questing fingers can slip into his armpits. Smooth skin, smoother even than any of the women he dated - how does Sherlock do it? He is fascinated, makes a mental note to explore the territory later with his tongue, and leans forward more, releasing Sherlock's earlobe and switching to the other side. Sherlock helpfully leans forward, shuddering when his forehead rests against John’s chest.

The dark curls stop at Sherlock's neck and beyond that is an expanse of white waiting for John to explore. He licks at Sherlock's neck, noticing that not even his sensitive tongue can pick up on any hair. His hands remain cupped around the hairless armpits, holding Sherlock still even when the man tries to squirm against him.

"Be still," John says, placing a kiss against the neglected ear before pulling back. Sherlock looks up at him. He's been biting his lower lip and it looks full and plump, bright red, addicting. John can't help himself. He leans down, pressing their mouths together. Sherlock keens and presses up into the kiss eagerly, parting his lips and swiping his tongue across John's. They dance, exploring each other's mouths, and John learns a brand new taste of Sherlock. Tea and lemon and something that is utterly Sherlock, god.

He's dizzy - needs air - and breaks off the kiss, panting. He tugs lightly at Sherlock's lower lip, can't resist making his own claim on it, before letting go. "Alright?" he rasps.

"Fine," Sherlock says, though he doesn't look it. He looks overwhelmed.

John smiles and lets go of his body in order to cup his face. He places a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, one on each cheek, the tip of his nose, before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. "Let me," he whispers.

Sherlock nods.

Somehow he has managed to keep their cocks apart. He backs up now, sliding to his knees and encouraging Sherlock to scoot forward until his bum is on the edge of the couch. It puts him at the right height to explore Sherlock's chest, which he wants very much. He splays his hands out, fascinated by the difference between the ivory skin and his own golden, by the tiny blond hairs that curl on the back of his hands and the lack of it on Sherlock, even around his dusky pink nipples. It should make Sherlock look young, like a teen boy not yet struck by puberty, but there is no question that Sherlock is all man.

"Christ," John says breathlessly. His mouth impacts Sherlock's chest finally, laving over that little V of skin left exposed by Sherlock's shirts. He's wanted to touch it, to kiss, to bite it for weeks now, possibly even months. "Do you have any fucking idea what you've been doing to me? What I've wanted to do to you? I haven't slept for more than a couple of hours in weeks. I can't stop thinking and dreaming about you."

Sherlock moans in response, his voice deeper than normal. The husky sound is mesmerizing and John instantly wants to earn more of them. He regretfully leaves off and licks his way down Sherlock's chest until he reaches a nipple. He sucks it into his mouth, enjoying the way that the body beneath him gives a little jerk, and laps at it like he would a lollipop. It hardens quickly, becoming a little pebble that is just right for John to flatten his tongue against. He nibbles gently, just a hint of teeth, and is rewarded when Sherlock bucks up uselessly.

"John, please," he says. "Please."

It's unlike Sherlock to ever say the word 'please'. Normally it would make John give in to him instantly, but not this time. He's been tormented for days and he thinks Sherlock needs a little payback. Besides, if this is his one chance, he's going to make the most of it. He pulls back but doesn't go far, switching to the other nipple, quickly bringing it into the same state. Sherlock squirms underneath him, hands clenched into fists at his sides, hips thrusting into the air uselessly because John has stayed just far enough back that there is nothing to thrust against. John is breathing heavily by the time Sherlock's nipples stand out on his chest, a deep rosy colour with arousal and teeth.

"Fucking beautiful," he reiterates. "God, Sherlock. You're so..." His mind, frustratingly, can't come up with anything else. Words are failing him, lost in favour of reattaching his lips to Sherlock's stomach. He slowly moves down to where Sherlock wants him most. The patch of hair that would normally be on Sherlock's lower belly is missing and the skin there is noticeably sensitive. John latches on, creating an impressive red blotch that will later darken into a vivid purple bruise, while Sherlock whimpers and finally tangles his fingers into John's hair.

"John," he whines. "John, please. Stop teasing me."

It's gratifying to hear Sherlock beg. It's not something many other people have ever or will ever hear. So John gives in, sitting back on his heels and gazing at Sherlock's cock. It's fully hard, jutting out proudly, begging for John's lips or hands or whatever else he may decide to give. John swallows and licks his lips. It's been a long time since he sucked cock for anyone and the fact that it's Sherlock, well. He has to adjust himself in his trousers before he can do anything else because the pressure is getting painful.

There's something sinfully delicious about the fact that Sherlock is completely bare and open to him while John is still fully dressed. He wants to take full advantage of it. So he leans back a little more and takes hold of one of Sherlock's legs, rubbing his cheek against the smooth calf. There's a small cut on Sherlock's ankle, right where the bone curves out, and he places a gentle kiss on top of it. A knick, he can tell. Was Sherlock aroused while shaving? Was he thinking about John while he was drawing the razor up his leg? Did his cock make it hard for him? It must have been excruciating and maddening, bending over, trying to focus long enough to shave without cutting himself. Even Sherlock's iron-clad control had broken. John groans softly and his eyes flutter open, locking onto Sherlock.

"I'm going to make you scream," he promises raggedly, his own cock pulsing at the thought. He wants to lick Sherlock all over - and he plans to. And then he's going to fuck Sherlock slowly until the detective won't be able to walk straight for a week. A slow grin curls his lips and Sherlock swallows, gasping, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides.

"Then please get on with it," he says, trying to sound calm, but mostly just managing to sound breathless and aroused and ready.

Who can resist that kind of invitation? John starts off slow, nibbling his way up Sherlock's knee and onto the soft inner skin of his thigh. He uses his teeth but is careful to remain gentle, leaving only small red marks that will fade away within a couple of hours. When Sherlock's cock is within reach, he presses his lips to the pale skin and sucks hard. Sherlock whines and tries to thrust, but John pins him down easily, wanting to leave a mark that will stay. Wanting anyone who dares to get close to know that Sherlock is his.

He soothes the irritated skin with a few swipes of his tongue before switching sides. He can smell musk and taste salt and sweat. By the time Sherlock's bare thighs are slick with saliva, the detective is moaning helplessly. John takes pity and grips Sherlock's hips again, urging him to scoot forward. Sherlock shivers as he follows the unspoken command, sliding his legs over John's shoulders.

The view is tantalizing. John hardly knows where to begin. He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly before watching as Sherlock's cock jumps from even that small amount of stimulation. He leans forward, bypassing his cock, and places a kiss on each bollock. Even those are perfectly smooth, devoid of even the slightest hint of black hair. John takes them in hand, rolling them thoughtfully, listening to the soft sounds coming from above him. Sherlock seems to like it, but John has a different plan in mind, so after one last kiss he descends lower.

Although the position isn't the best, he doesn't want to move, so it will do. He presses Sherlock's thighs a little wider and licks a stripe across his hole and up his perineum. Sherlock jumps and makes a strangely high-pitched sound that makes John smirk. The taste isn't unpleasant, so he does it again, and then a third time.

"John!" Sherlock's voice is strained.

He doesn't respond, but he does stop teasing. He begins to focus his attention on Sherlock's hole, gently lapping at the sensitive rim. Beneath the light touch of his tongue the muscle begins to relax. Above him, a series of strangled whimpers spill from Sherlock's throat, and then suddenly long fingers twine their way into John's head, though it seems that Sherlock isn't sure whether he wants to push John away or pull him closer. He's squirming constantly, unable to keep still.

His tongue breaks through, pressing deeply inside Sherlock, who throws his head back and cries out at the sensation. "John, please, please, please," he gasps, his whole body shuddering. "Please, I can't, it's too much. John!"

The genuine distress in Sherlock's voice is enough to make John pull back, if somewhat regretfully. His shoulder aches as he rests his hands on Sherlock's thighs and looks up. Sherlock's face is flushed, his cheeks bright pink. His eyes are enormous and the thin ring of colour that's visible has turned a bright shade of silvery blue. A thin bead of blood has appeared on his lower lip where's he broken the skin in an effort to remain quiet. He's shaking, visibly trembling.

"It's alright, Sherlock," John says, leaning up and drawing the detective down into a gentle kiss. He suspects that while Sherlock is no stranger to sex, it's probably a relatively new experience to be participating when he isn't high, and there's likely so much data that it's overwhelming. He keeps the kisses soft and chaste, light presses of their lips until Sherlock stops shaking and begins to kiss back. "Alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, dropping his hands from John's hair to his shoulders. "John, I want you to fuck me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Let me get some supplies." John levers himself up with a faint groan of pain. His leg aches as he makes his way up to his bedroom, but it's the only place he keeps lube and condoms. He carries both back down into the sitting room. One glance at the couch makes his mouth go dry.

Sherlock has moved, is now sitting with his back to the arm and one leg hooked over the back of the couch, the other splayed on the floor. One of his hands is wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, not stroking, just holding. His head is tipped back, revealing his long neck and the bite marks left behind. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted... Fuck, he looks like the embodiment of the world's best, or possibly worst, wet dream. John is possessed with the sudden desire to take a picture just in case he never gets to see this again.

But at that moment, Sherlock's eyes open, and he draws in a deep breath when he sees John. "John. Hurry!"

A command like that must be answered. John walks over to him on slightly wobbly legs and drops the condoms and lube between his parted thighs. "You're so beautiful," he says reverently, and he knows he's repeating himself, but there's just no other adjective to describe someone as otherworldly as Sherlock Holmes.

"And you're still dressed," Sherlock says pointedly.

John chuckles. "So I am." It's tempting to stay dressed, to just pull his cock out through the zipper and fuck Sherlock like that, but for their first - maybe only - time he wants to be able to feel every inch of Sherlock against him. He begins disrobing, starting with his shirt. Sherlock stares at him, eyes taking in every inch, and normally this would make John self-conscious but surprisingly, somehow, he doesn't. His trousers are next, and then his socks, and finally his pants, leaving him as naked as Sherlock, with the exception of the dusty gold hair that covers his body.

Sherlock groans and then reaches out, sliding his free hand around John's cock. "Fuck me," he says again.

"I'm going to," John promises, stepping forward to get more contact. Now that he's disrobed, it feels so much more real. Sherlock's hand on his prick feels amazing. Those long, slender fingers could easily drive him wild. He grabs the lube and gently removes Sherlock's hand before that can happen. "Lie back," he instructs, hoping his voice isn't shaking. "Just... let me."

He sits down in front of Sherlock and pops the top off of the lube. It’s a new bottle, a gag gift from Harry a couple of birthdays ago that he never got around to throwing out. The cool liquid slides thickly over his fingers and he rubs them together to warm it up. Sherlock watches his every movement closely and John is pretty sure that there are a hundred things on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, ready to spill free. He doesn’t give them a chance.

Sherlock's arsehole is still fairly loose and his first finger slides in easily. John watches his face closely, searching for any signs of discomfort. “Talk to me,” he says. “How does it feel?”

“Strange but it doesn’t hurt,” Sherlock says. “I’m not a virgin.” He speaks the word so distastefully that John can’t bite back his grin.

“I know you’re not,” he says affectionately, knowing just how bothered Sherlock really was by that nickname. He wraps his other hand around Sherlock’s cock and begins to pull with long, lazy strokes of the fingers. Sherlock bites down on his lower lip again but it’s not enough to stop the low rumble of pleasure from escaping. As tempting as it is to fuck him, John realizes he wants to do something else even more. He wants to take Sherlock apart with his hands, maybe even his mouth; he wants to watch the great consulting detective drown in pleasure and need John to rescue him from it.

He pulls his finger free and then slides in two before Sherlock can protest. It’s a bit of a tight fit but the muscle is definitely adapting to John’s touch. The lube helps. Sherlock is warm inside, the heat a fascinating contradiction from someone who always looks and acts like he’s been carved from ice, and smooth. At least in this he is the same inside and out. John smirks a little and increases his attention to Sherlock’s cock, pulling the foreskin back to expose the glans at the end. His touch remains light, just enough to stimulate but nowhere near enough to achieve orgasm and Sherlock knows it.

“Stop… teasing…” he grates out, fingers digging into the couch.

“I can’t help myself,” John admits. Part of him never wants this moment to end. He could do this for hours, just watching the play of emotion across Sherlock’s surprisingly expressive face. But that’s unfair, so he twists his wrist, deliberately fluttering his fingers inside while his thumb roughly massages the perineum. Sherlock gasps and pushes down with his hips.

“John,” he says, so breathlessly that the syllable is nearly inaudible. “If you’re going to fuck me - oh god - do it now. I can’t - ”

John gives in, knowing that Sherlock is close. He begins stroking Sherlock’s erection intently, firming the touch of his fingers and dragging his pinkie finger across the vein on the underside, all while pumping his other hand firmly in and out. Every time Sherlock thrusts up or down, he’s rewarded by pleasure, and it’s swiftly undoing him. His eyes fall closed and his head tips back again, exposing his neck, lips parted in a soundless gasp. The muscles in his belly begin to contract and John feels a similar squeezing around the two fingers still inside. He doesn’t let up on his pace, but somehow manages to lean down awkwardly and give a quick lick to the tip of Sherlock's cock.

It’s enough. Sherlock cries out as he comes, back arching, his cock spurting thick lines of seed across his stomach and John’s face and chest. John breathes in deeply, feeling like he is the one who was overwhelmed, and gently eases his fingers out of Sherlock’s arse. Now that Sherlock has come he can feel his own body’s demand for release building. He wraps his still lubricated fingers around his cock and begins to pull steadily, dizzied by the perfect replication of Sherlock-in-passion that is painted across the backs of his eyelids. When he licks his lips, he can even taste it the remnants of seed, bitter but arousing.

Long, cool fingers join his and begin stroking in tandem. John opens his eyes and realized that Sherlock has sat up, is watching him with a burning gaze. Sherlock wraps his other hand around John’s neck and pulls him into a deep kiss and that’s all it takes. His shout is muffled by Sherlock’s tongue as he trembles, lost in a white blaze of ohmygodIjusthadsexwithSherlockfuckingHolmes. Sherlock breaks off the kiss and leans his forehead against John’s, both of them breathing a little unsteadily.

“You didn’t fuck me,” Sherlock says at last. Even though he’s naked with ropes of semen painted across his body, he still manages to sound like a petulant eight-year-old child.

“No, I didn’t,” John agrees. “Would you like me to?”

“Yes.”

He pauses, surprised by the sudden, firm answer, and pulls back. “Sherlock - ”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” Sherlock smirks.

“Bloody well fortunate I did want that answer then, isn’t it?” John says, watching him carefully.

Sherlock looks at him and then rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Yes to all of it. Every question going through your mind, the answer is yes.”

It would be a good time to extract some interesting promises from him but John stays the urge. Instead he reaches out and trails a thumb down Sherlock’s cheek. “Does that mean I can watch you shave some time?” he asks mildly.

“I might even let you help.” Sherlock tilts his head down, looking up at John through his fringe. It shouldn’t be as erotic as it is. “If you fuck me next time.”

Jesus. He exhales shakily and is tempted to ask how fast hair grows on the human body, except Sherlock will probably know the answer down to the last second. “Deal.”


End file.
